When I balled up and retreated
into my own womb
you stretched me out
like I was a cashmere sweater
put mistakenly in the wash there is no washing away
the ash I rubbed into my cheeks
a mask, I said, but really
it was meant to resemble my insides, needled
and sour after you went away
Dearheart, you are not so much desiccated
as you are lush with weeds and other
unloved greenery, grass
that bends under the weight of heels
and large mammals
There is something
untouched inside you, and it pulses
to the rhythm of your breath
inchoate, yet full to the brim
with all you have left unspoken
In this green meadow
that echoes your internal landscape, you find
a rock in your shoe
and do not remove it, preferring
to limp along to nature’s whims.